Country Holiday
by Ancalime8301
Summary: Watson takes Holmes on holiday for his health, but even small country villages have crimes to solve.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Canon-based. Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: _It seems to me that every time Watson insists that, for the good of Holmes's health, he must go on a holiday to the country...wherever they go there is murder and burglaries and, well, basically, a mystery for Holmes to solve._

_So...Holmes is rather ill and run down. Watson takes him to the country. A case pops up. I'm really looking for one of two things: [...]_

_2. Watson isn't able to stop him and Holmes's health is seriously effected; for once another case is NOT just the cure he was looking for to save him from his latest illness. It puts him seriously at risk._

_So basically I want sick!Holmes with either a dose of silliness and humor or seriousness and hurt/comfort or some mix of all these things. Any verse._

Also fills my hc_bingo square "Severe/life-threatening illness".

The case in this fic is heavily inspired by certain events in Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White. The details are somewhat different, as are some of the effects, but if you've read that book and some of the bits in this fic seem familiar, that's why. :)

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes returned from France a haggard shadow of himself, his face lined with exhaustion and privation, his body trembling from overwork and overstrained nerves. He was jumpy at the slightest provocation, and even several good nights' rest did not ease the tension in his too thin frame. Holmes had been endlessly busy ever since his return from the dead, and now the strain was catching up with him.<p>

Something must be done, so Watson declared they were going away for a bit of space and air. Holmes naturally resisted the idea; that it was nearly Christmas was his ready excuse. However, neither of them made a practice of observing that holiday and Watson's resolve did not waver.

The challenge, however, was determining where to go. A trip to the Continent was out of the question, given Holmes' recent experiences, though Watson thought somewhere along the warm Mediterranean coast would have been ideal. In the end, he chose their destination by selecting, at random, an advertisement in the paper for a cosy village inn conveniently located a short distance from the London-Brighton line.

They arrived two days before Christmas.

Two days after Christmas, the elderly vicar of the village church was found dead in the vestry. Though the villagers had long expected him to expire of natural causes, he was found with his throat slashed open, lying in a pool of his own blood.

Word spread through the village like wildfire. Holmes was out roaming the countryside when the news first reached the inn. Watson's heart sank when he heard, recognizing that Holmes would find the temptation of a case utterly irresistible, for he'd already repeatedly expressed his displeasure at being dragged into the country in the first place. Holmes' little excursion that morning was against Watson's wishes-Holmes had not been sleeping well, if at all, and was slightly feverish-but Watson capitulated in the end, hoping some physical exertion would help Holmes sleep.

But that was not to be.

Predictably, Holmes was interested in the murder even though he dismissed it as likely to be a trivial matter.

The 'trivial matter' quickly proved to be anything but, to Watson's dismay. He had, naturally, accompanied Holmes to survey the scene. The village constable met them there and quickly became the target of Holmes' derision when he found the area less than pristine, for the body had been removed and there were numerous footprints in the dust on the floor, obscuring any the murderer may have left behind.

Holmes quickly fell to work, observing the location of the blood pool that had yet to be cleaned up, the furnishings within the vestry and the layer of dust that coated several of them, the cabinet door that hung ajar, and the two means of entry to the room-an outside door and a door to the sanctuary. "Is there anyone here familiar with how this room is used and arranged?"

"Yessir, the vicar's daughter," the constable said stoutly, but did not move.

Holmes looked at him with exasperation. "Fetch her then, please."

"Of course, sir," he said, hurrying to comply.

The vicar's petite daughter, Abigail, was well into middle age, having returned to the village to care for her father in his advancing years after her husband was killed in a train accident and she was left a childless widow. She had gone in search of her father when he did not appear for breakfast and found his body.

Holmes peppered her with questions about her habits, her father's habits, whether her father's bed had been slept in the previous night, and whether the cabinet always stood open. After answering this last in the negative, Holmes allowed her to examine the contents and she quickly exclaimed that one of the marriage registers was missing. She was able to identify the years covered in the volume, which Watson duly noted, and Holmes inquired whether another copy of the missing records existed.

"I do not know for certain," she admitted. "If there was a copy, it would have been sent to Chichester, the county town."

Holmes provided strict instruction to her and the constable that no one be told of the missing register and told the constable that the room must be watched at all times. "Whoever returns the register to the cabinet is your man," Holmes concluded. He left the vestry by the outside door, Watson following close on his heels, and spent some time outside studying the snow for tracks.

It was dusk before Holmes had finished and set out for the inn, swinging his walking stick gaily. "Have you solved it, then?" Watson asked hopefully as he trailed behind, carefully picking his way through the snow and slush.

"I believe I know what happened and have an inkling why it happened, but I do not know who is the culprit. I require more data about the inhabitants of the area."

"Why do you think the register will be returned?"

"The intent was not to steal it, but to tamper with it. The ink on the desk was uncapped and a pen was dropped on the floor nearby; he was interrupted by the vicar in his task. After killing the vicar, he feared discovery and, rather than conclude his errand there, took the book with him."

"But why tamper with a marriage registry? Surely the villagers will remember the weddings that have occurred."

"The records taken cover a period some fifty years ago. If the marriage in question was performed quietly, it is quite possible that only a handful of people witnessed it, and those witnesses could all now be dead."

"But the vicar . . ." Watson stopped his own question. "He might have remembered whether he performed such a marriage, and when."

"Now you come to it," Holmes said gravely. "Yes, the vicar would likely have been murdered whether he discovered our culprit in his task or not." They arrived at their inn and Holmes held the door for Watson. "Dinner, then?"

Watson readily agreed, but they did not speak further about the case until they were ensconced in the inn's otherwise empty sitting room, seated in armchairs by the fire. "I may require you to journey to Chichester," Holmes commented as he lit his pipe.

"I suspected as much," Watson said. "I will inquire about the trains tomorrow."

"Good old Watson."

.

When Watson rose and went down to breakfast, Holmes was deep in conversation with the innkeeper at the bar. Watson sat next to him and listened with interest; the garrulous proprietor was naming every inhabitant of the village and the surrounding area, including their approximate age and occupation. Holmes' expression was bland, but Watson could tell he was absorbing the information with utmost attention.

"As I were saying, there's none as are new to the area," he said to conclude his recitation. "The closest thing would be Sir Thaddeus Smith over at Smith House, but his family has been around for generations. His father, Sir Matthias Smith, died a few years back, and Sir Thaddeus moved down from London nearly a year ago."

"But while his father was alive, he lived in London?" Watson questioned, thinking it somewhat odd.

"He came for visits, but he had friends at court and he preferred to be in London where there was more to do. Not suited for country life, that one."

"And yet he has settled here," Holmes commented.

"Aye. I hear tell he has his eye on a young lady in the next town over, you see, so he had to come and fix up the manor house." The innkeeper winked at them before turning toward the kitchen door and hollering for his wife to bring Watson more bacon and eggs.

After Watson's breakfast had been replenished, Holmes changed the subject. "Are there any disputes between the villagers? Feuds or the like?"

"Only what you'd call the usual sorts of things," the innkeeper said lightly, pouring more coffee for all three of them. "Hard feelings over who won what at the last fair, minor disagreements over property lines, and such like." Then he sobered as he appeared to remember something. "Except . . . then there's Lucy Mortimer. She's a little off in the head, and has long said that she is the rightful heiress of Smith House."

"How does she support this claim?"

"She says that Sir Thaddeus' mother was never actually married to Sir Matthias. As she is the only grandchild of Sir Matthias' aunt and Sir Matthias had no siblings, that makes her the rightful heir."

"Where can we find Miss Mortimer?"

.

Miss Lucy Mortimer was technically Mrs. Lucy Fitzgerald, as she had married and had a son; her husband had abandoned her and their son when the child was young, so she returned to using her maiden name despite still being married according to the laws of England. Her son clerked in a law office in London. "He must work, since he has been cheated of his rightful inheritance," she said bitterly, then sipped delicately from her cup of tea.

"How are you so certain that Sir Matthias never married?" Holmes inquired bluntly, his cup of tea sitting untouched on the small table beside his chair.

"His marriage isn't in the registry," she said simply. "I was seventeen when Thaddeus was born, and I knew what that meant for me if he was legitimate. I went into the vestry following the service the next week and checked the registry going back to well before they began living as a couple; there was no marriage for Sir Matthias Smith."

"Would there have been an entry if he had married elsewhere?" Watson asked.

"All marriages for residents of the area are recorded, no matter where they occur. Sir Matthias hated traveling, so his marriage would have been performed by our vicar, if a marriage had taken place."

"Sir Thaddeus' mother was from this area?"

"In a manner of speaking. She was the daughter of a wealthy couple that summered here."

"What happened to her?"

"She would take Thaddeus and spent part of the year in London; she died in one of the cholera outbreaks there when Thaddeus was twenty-one. From what I understand, he was able to live off her money and the interest until a few years ago when his debts became too large."

"Does your son know of your accusations concerning Sir Thaddeus?" Holmes broke in.

"Everyone in the village does, but he has listened to the gossip that my claims are nothing more than jealousy. I have not explained to him my reasons, if that's what you're asking. I thought it better that he be ignorant of what should be his, for the sake of his happiness."

"Thank you, you have been most helpful," Holmes said, rising from his chair and taking his leave.

Watson saw nothing wrong with Miss Mortimer's intelligence or reasoning, and said so once they quitted her small house. Holmes agreed with this assessment but said nothing more.

When they arrived at the inn, Holmes went up to their rooms while Watson stopped to ask the innkeeper if they had the train schedules available. He pored over them for some time, jotting the times in his notebook, then thanked the innkeeper and trudged up to the room.

"Going to Chichester will require me to stay there overnight," Watson said, closing the door behind him and coughing a little at the pipesmoke cloud that immediately enveloped him. He crossed the room and cracked open the window. "I can leave first thing in the morning, if you wish me to go."

"Yes," Holmes replied without opening his eyes. "Thank you."

"Will I have to lock you in the room during my absence so you get some rest?" Watson chided.

"I would pick the lock," Holmes said without hesitation.

"I know it full well," Watson grumbled. "Will you at least sleep tonight, then? You look dreadful, Holmes."

Holmes sighed and unfolded himself from the armchair he'd been perched in, then stretched himself out on his bed, his hands behind his head and his pipe still clenched between his teeth. "Better?"

"A bit," Watson said grudgingly and turned his attention to packing a few belongings for his trip on the morrow.

.

Watson was weary when he arrived in Chichester, but he resisted the urge to rest in the room he'd acquired near the train station. Immediately after depositing his belongings and freshening up, he departed for the city's main building.

It was a good thing he did, for it took several hours of being passed from one clerk to another before one of them knew where the records he desired were kept. Unfortunately, by that time the offices were closing, and they told him to return in the morning to have those files pulled for his review.

Hopeful that his errand would be fruitful, he retired early and woke with plenty of time to arrive promptly at the office when it opened. The clerk from the previous afternoon remembered him and quickly located the proper records.

Watson was presented with a book that looked much like the ones that had been left in the vestry cupboard. He was not permitted to take it from the building, so he studied the pages and the entries therein with an eye to the items Holmes had instructed him to look for.

He remained bent over the tome for hours, taking hurried notes, and finished just in time to stop by the hotel for his bag before catching his train back.

Dusk had fallen and was deepening into night when he arrived back in the village. The cab let him off in front of the inn, which was strangely quiet for that hour of the day. He wondered where everyone was, then realized he smelled smoke. He wandered to the end of the street, looking for the source of the smell.

The sound of shouts and cries drew his attention to the church on the top of the hill. Part of it was on fire, the flames reaching high into the sky.

Watson returned to the inn, exchanged his overnight bag for his medical bag, and hurried up the hill. With a blaze like that, injuries were likely.


	2. Chapter 2

After Watson departed for Chichester, Holmes spent a good deal of time in the churchyard, studying the paths of approach and noting where the constable had chosen to set up his watch. He took over the watch for some hours in the afternoon and evening, departing only when the lightly-falling snow thickened, swirling and drifting to an extent that no one would want to brave unless absolutely necessary. The vicar's daughter promised to keep an ear out for any disturbance, but Holmes judged his quarry would not emerge on such a night.

He returned to the inn and passed the nighttime hours in deep thought.

After his night of introspection, Holmes was fairly confident that the supposed Sir Thaddeus would make an attempt that day to return the register to the vestry. He relieved the constable and spent the morning lurking alongside the building where he could see but not be seen.

When midday passed with no sign of anyone and the outside temperature dropped several degrees, Holmes decided to move indoors. He went into the church through the main entrance and approached the vestry from inside to ensure that he would not leave any tracks for Thaddeus Smith to see. He slipped into a dark corner behind the door into the church and resumed his vigil.

Dusk was falling when Holmes heard footsteps crunching through the snow and the outside door creaked open. The cloaked figure that entered had a covered lantern, which he opened slightly to light his way in the dim room. He went straight to the cabinet and set his lantern down so he could use both hands to slip the missing register back into its place. All was, so far, just as Holmes had anticipated.

Then came something unanticipated: the man withdrew a flask from a pocket and poured something down the front of the cabinet and on the floor in front of it. Holmes smelled lamp oil, and he cried, "Halt!" as he sprang from his hiding place toward the intruder.

The man whirled and a gleam of metal in his hand provided the only warning before four bullets were fired in Holmes' direction. Since the light was not shining in his direction, the shots were fired blind and Holmes was able to evade all but one, which grazed his side as he approached the man. He was able to knock the gun from Smith's hand, and it slid somewhere behind Holmes.

Thaddeus Smith threw himself at Holmes with a roar, and they struggled hand-to-hand for some time. He was shorter and heavier than Holmes, but had evidently had some training and was an even match for Holmes in his less-than-peak condition.

At length Smith had Holmes backed against the wall and pushed him with enough force that Holmes struck his head against the wall and his grip faltered. With another shove that dazed Holmes enough to make him slump to the floor, Smith turned away to finish what he'd started.

Holmes had enough presence of mind to notice the gun lying just beyond his reach; he crawled for it and fired, striking Smith in the shoulder. Enraged, Smith turned and fell upon him, striking him with his fists until Holmes lay limply on the floor, knocked senseless by the blows.

.

Abigail had always made a round of the church at nightfall to secure the doors and extinguish the lamps and candles. On this particular evening, she did her round later than usual after waking from an unplanned nap-she had not slept well since her father's death-and quickly smelled smoke where there should not be.

The sanctuary was as still and silent as ever, but the smoke smell was stronger here than in the entryway, so she checked all of the rooms off the sanctuary. The vestry was last, and she knew even as she felt the warmth through the door that the fire was there. She pushed open the door a crack and spied a conflagration well beyond her means to quench.

She closed the door again and ran for the bell, grasping the rope above her head and, throwing all of her slight weight into pulling it, she managed to get the bell moving. Soon she had it ringing in great peals, and left it, still swinging from its momentum, to throw open the front doors and cry, "Fire!"

The unexpected ringing of the bell had quickly drawn the nearest neighbors from their homes, and the cry of fire rapidly spread throughout the village, all inhabitants converging on the church with buckets in hand.

Fortunately there was a pump just in front of the church, and a line of men was soon passing water toward the blaze. The men at the front pushed open the outer vestry door and tried to cast water on the source of the flames; as soon as they did so, an exclamation went up that there was a man inside.

The fire was too intense to retrieve him at first, so they threw water over his body to keep him from burning. When there was a chance to do so, one of the men crawled in and grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him from the blazing room. Another man helped carry him a short distance from the vestry and set him in the snow, then returned to the bucket line.

Abigail hurried to tend the motionless man and was horrified to find it was Mr. Holmes. He was still breathing but was already beginning to shiver from being doused and then set in the snow, so she left him long enough to fetch an armful of blankets and quilts from the rectory.

She was returning to his side when she spied Dr. Watson making his way up the hill. "Doctor!" she cried, rushing up to him. "You must come and help him."

.

Watson was horrified to find Holmes was the injured party. Abigail spread some of the blankets and then helped him move Holmes onto them as she told him about the discovery of Holmes in the vestry, which was now engulfed in flames.

Holmes was bleeding from his side and his breathing was labored; he had not roused though he shivered greatly in the frigid air. "We need to move him indoors," Watson said. "Is the rectory at a safe enough distance from the church?"

"So long as there is no wind, I believe it will be preserved. Can you carry him?"

"If you can take his legs, we should be able to manage." Watson did not wish to take any of the villagers away from the task of trying to save their church, though it looked to be a lost cause.

Abigail directed him to the bedroom that had been her father's, despite Watson's protestations, and efficiently provided hot water and towels, then ran back to retrieve the medical bag Watson had to leave behind in order to carry Holmes.

Once Holmes was undressed, dried, and propped up on pillows to aid his breathing, there was little Watson could do but wait. The graze on his side did not require stitches and Watson did not want to bandage it for fear of hampering Holmes' respiratory function. Watson was somewhat reassured by the fact that Holmes' color had improved since being brought indoors-he was no longer blue around the mouth-but did not like the rasp in Holmes' breathing, nor his lack of response to anything Watson did to him.

Holmes finally ceased shivering after nearly an hour beneath a pile of blankets, the room itself warmed by a roaring fire, and began coughing instead. Watson considered this an improvement since it would hopefully clear Holmes' lungs of the fluid that caused the earlier rasping.

Abigail stopped by periodically to see if he needed anything but the answer was always no. After a while Watson noticed she hadn't come in a while and wondered if that meant the fire had spread. Then she appeared with a tray of tea and sandwiches and apologized for her absence; she had been making tea and sandwiches for everyone who had come to fight the fire.

"Did they have any success?"

"I'm afraid not. The roof has collapsed; nothing more can be done."

"I'm very sorry," Watson said sincerely.

"I am glad Father did not live to see it, that is all," Abigail said with a small shrug. "Oh, and the constable found blood and tracks in the snow, so he and a few others are following them to try to find the one who did this to your friend."

Watson was glad to hear it and hoped no more bloodshed would result.

.

After several sleepless hours watching Holmes for any sign of improvement, Watson's exertions had him dozing off in his chair, so he stretched himself out atop the covers next to Holmes-the bed was quite large-and slept for a while. He woke abruptly when there was movement next to him. "Watson?" Holmes' hoarse voice croaked, then a fit of coughing seized him.

"I'm here, Holmes. Don't try to talk," Watson said immediately, rising on his knees and turning up the lamp so he could see better.

Holmes was pale and his breathing was labored, but he was awake and aware, and that was good enough for Watson for the time being. He helped Holmes drink some water to clear any soot from his throat. "I want you to tell me something. You can nod for yes and shake your head for no. Was it Thaddeus Smith?"

Holmes nodded.

"I did not find any record of his parents' marriage, as you suspected. Did you expect him to set the place afire?"

Holmes shook his head emphatically.

"Well, that's something. They'll have to add arson to his charges when they catch him."

Holmes frowned.

"The constable went after him. You managed to shoot him-I'm guessing with his gun, since we didn't bring mine-so he left a trail behind."

Holmes took a breath as if to speak, but coughed instead.

"What did I tell you about talking? You really ought to rest," Watson scolded, giving Holmes more sips of water. "I'll be right here if you need anything."

Holmes nodded, his eyelids already drooping.

Watson watched until he was sure Holmes was asleep. Holmes felt warm to the touch, but that may have been from an excess of blankets. Watson removed a few layers, stoked the fire, and laid down again.


	3. Chapter 3

Watson woke feeling grimy and tense. Holmes was still sleeping, so he quietly washed his face and neck and tried to resign himself to wearing this set of clothes which reeked of smoke (and now that he had noticed the aroma he was going to smell it until he changed). He left the bedroom door slightly ajar and padded down the hallway, only now paying attention to the rest of the house.

Abigail was in the kitchen and offered him tea and scones. "I would have sent for your things from the inn, but I thought you might wish to collect them yourself," she said when he had some tea and scone in him and was feeling a little better about being awake. "I can sit with him while you go."

"Thank you, that is very kind, but I don't wish to impose. Holmes should be well enough to make the trip back to the inn in a cart, if one can be borrowed."

"I'm sure that can be arranged, if that's what you wish to do. But you will need to fetch him a new set of clothes, at the very least. What he wore yesterday is mostly ruined."

"Ah, yes, I had forgotten. I could use a change of clothes, as well. I will take you up on your offer, then, while I make a quick trip to the inn."

He felt much better after the brisk walk and putting on fresh clothes. Though he was fairly confident that Holmes could be moved later in the day, he found himself packing up all of their belongings, just in case. He brought only his small bag back with him, with clothes for Holmes, Holmes' nightshirt, and a change of clothes for himself; the rest of the luggage could be sent for if needed.

Holmes was awake when Watson returned, but his breathing was still labored and his voice was at least an octave lower than normal-that is, when he succeeded at talking rather than coughing. Watson scolded him for trying to talk and plied him with scrambled eggs and juice to keep his mouth busy with something else.

Abigail told them that the constable had been able to corner Thaddeus Smith in a small hunting cabin; he was arrested and sent to Brighton to have the bullet removed from his shoulder before being locked up in the jail there. Parts of the church were still smoldering but it was already being considered a total loss, which Thaddeus Smith would have to pay for. "Assuming he has the money," she added. "Word is that he's up to his ears in debt, and the dowry of his intended would have saved him. You can bet that marriage is off, if she knows what's good for her."

"I would imagine she'd want nothing to do with him after all this," Watson speculated.

"I should hope not. Do you gentlemen need anything else before I go do the baking?"

"No, I think not, thank you."

After she left, Watson regarded Holmes with an assessing gaze. His breathing still sounded rougher than it ought, but his color was good and he seemed reasonably alert. "How are you feeling?"

Holmes blinked, then took a careful breath. "Headache. Breathing hurts." Even this brief statement was followed by a fit of coughing.

Watson gave him some water, then mixed some powdered headache medication into another glass of water and handed him that as well. It took some time for Holmes to finish it; swallowing was evidently painful as well. Watson said, "Let's see how you feel after resting for a few more hours. We have been invited to stay here as long as is needed, but I hate to impose on her grief."

Holmes nodded slightly, his exhaustion evident in the droop of his eyes and the difficulty he had in lifting the glass as he tried to finish drinking from it. He was asleep soon afterward. Watson pulled a novel from his bag-he'd thrown it in just in case-and tried to read, though his own eyes often closed of their own accord.

Watson was startled back to wakefulness by his book hitting the floor with a thump. He'd been asleep for over an hour, by the mantel clock's reckoning. He rubbed his face briskly and leaned forward to check on Holmes.

His breathing was more labored than before. He seemed to struggle for every inhalation, and his pallor was tinged blue-grey. His forehead was dotted with perspiration, which Watson blotted away. Holmes opened his eyes. "Hard to breathe," he said in barely a whisper.

Watson frowned and rummaged in his bag for his stethoscope. The lungs themselves sounded clear-he had feared pneumonia-but the flow of air was far less than it should be, and not for lack of trying on Holmes' part. The wheezing sounds when Holmes breathed were informative. "The irritation from the smoke must be causing inflammation," Watson said. "Let me try sitting you up a bit more."

He eased Holmes up until he was sitting almost upright, but it did not seem to help. He propped him up there with the pillows and returned to his bag, sifting through its contents as he racked his brain for what might help ease the swelling.

One thing was certain: taking Holmes outdoors in the frigid air with his lungs in this state was exceedingly unwise. It might even kill him.

.

Unexpectedly, Abigail was able to provide a few suggestions. Watson had gone to the kitchen to ask for a kettle and basin-he thought it might help if the air wasn't so dry in Holmes' room, which steam could fix-only to find out in speaking with her that the deceased vicar had been an asthmatic, so she had several herbal remedies on hand that he could try on Holmes.

The next several hours were spent dosing Holmes with this syrup or that decoction and then watching anxiously for any improvement, however minute. Holmes concentrated his efforts on the monumental task of breathing and cooperatively swallowed whatever Watson pressed upon him.

But none of it made any apparent difference. Watson hesitated to try the last option, as it required smoking a mixture of herbs and he wasn't sure adding more smoke to the question was advisable. But hours had passed and Holmes was quickly tiring, and Watson thought Holmes was showing signs of confusion, which could mean he was in danger of mental damage if these conditions persisted.

Holmes coughed when first attempting to inhale from the pipe Watson packed for him, but Watson had him try again. It took a good half-dozen tries before Holmes could draw the smoke in far enough for it to do any good-if it was going to do any good-but he did get the hang of it before the leaf was expended.

Watson strained to see or hear any change. When Holmes set down the pipe and closed his eyes, he slowly drew several breaths in and out, then shook his head. "No better," he mumbled.

Watson slumped and let out the breath he'd been holding. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I hoped something would help."

Holmes' hand found Watson's and patted it.

"It could be hours yet before the swelling subsides on its own. Do you think you can manage?"

Holmes lifted his shoulders slightly in a shrug. "I must," he whispered.

"I will be right here if you need anything," Watson promised.

And he was. Watson steadfastly remained at Holmes' side, silently coaxing him to take another breath, then another, and when Holmes' breath caught and he coughed and choked, Watson held him and murmured reassuringly to him and gave him tiny sips of water to soothe his abused throat. There was nothing else he could do, so he took full advantage of every opportunity to provide some help to Holmes.

Minutes turned into hours, the chiming of the parlor clock marking the half-hours and hours. Abigail left at some point-though her father's body had been immolated in the fire that destroyed the church, the funeral went on as scheduled in the main room of the inn-and returned again and prepared a light supper, and still Holmes' struggle continued. She brought Watson a sandwich and a pot of coffee before retiring to bed. Watson was not hungry but he slowly ate and greedily drank the coffee.

Midnight came and went. Holmes kept his eyes closed, though he did not sleep; all his energy and concentration were focused on dragging air into his resistant lungs.

The wee hours of the morning crept by, and Holmes began to falter. There were pauses between breaths, pauses that lengthened every time they occurred. Watson took one of Holmes' cool hands in both of his and squeezed it. "Holmes, please," he said desperately.

Holmes' eyelids opened the slightest bit and Watson knew he was looking at him.

"I can't lose you again, not when I've just gotten you back."

The tiniest nod, and the slow cadence of labored breaths continued.

Now that he had given voice to the idea, Watson couldn't rid himself of the thought of Holmes' death. Vivid memories played in his mind's eye, excruciating in their detail, both visual and emotional. The long run from the hotel to the Falls with his heart in his throat, fearing what had passed in his absence . . . the empty hillside where Holmes ought to have been . . . his heart plummeting over the cliff after Holmes when he found and read the note . . .

One scene progressed into another, just as it had in life, and he had to force himself to open his eyes and stare at Holmes and clutch his hand tightly to bring himself back to the present. But the sight didn't wholly dispel the memories, not with Holmes lying as still as a corpse.

The next time Holmes had a coughing fit, Watson helped him lean forward and let him rest his head on his shoulder, Watson's arms loosely around his back. Watson held him in this embrace long after Holmes' breathing had settled back into its strained rhythm, feeling Holmes' sweat-damp hair against his cheek and the slight movement of his ribs beneath his hands.

When the first rays of the sun painted the wall behind his empty chair in shades of gold and crimson, Watson reluctantly settled Holmes back on his pillows; it wouldn't do to scandalize their hostess, and seeing him closely embracing his nude friend could easily be misunderstood despite his wholly innocent intent. Holmes' eyes fluttered and Watson took his hand again.

Abigail came to look in on them about an hour after sunrise and was grieved that Holmes had shown no improvement. "I have been praying ceaselessly for him, and so have some of the other members of the congregation," she said.

Watson thanked her, thinking that the prayers were evidently useless, but the gesture was appreciated. She brought him porridge and toast and another pot of coffee. He couldn't eat, not with the lump of fear in his throat, but the coffee was quite welcome.

As it neared the hour when Holmes had first developed this trouble, Watson grew anxious. Surely it was too much to expect that the swelling would suddenly abate just because a day had passed, but at the same time it could only last so long and every passing hour increased the chances that the reaction would subside.

Despite Watson's dedicated vigil, in the end he did not notice the exact moment when Holmes began to breathe a little easier, for he had fallen asleep. It was only when a coughing fit woke him-Holmes had breathed a little too deeply-that he realized there was a subtle difference in Holmes' inhalations.

"Does it feel any easier?" he asked as he scrambled to pull out his stethoscope and confirm the improvement.

"It's hard to tell," Holmes rasped. "I don't think . . . I could sleep yet . . . without feeling . . . like I'm suffocating."

"With any luck, you'll be able to sleep soon," Watson said, hoping with all his might that he wasn't lying through his teeth.

Holmes' lungs decided not to make Watson a liar. The obstruction had sufficiently subsided by noon that Holmes could drop off for short periods, though he often jerked awake with a gasp, which set off a coughing fit. Watson wasn't sure quite why Holmes would gasp himself awake, though he suspected Holmes' mind still thought he couldn't breathe and the instinctive panic made him gasp for air.

Once Holmes had managed a few catnaps, Watson used one of his wakeful moments to insist that he drink some soup so he could begin to regain his strength. Surprisingly, Holmes didn't object in the slightest, so then the next time he was awake, Watson had him try some mashed potatoes. Holmes balked at the potatoes, saying swallowing them made him feel like he was choking again. Watson had to concede the point.

By evening, Holmes could inhale almost as deeply as normal; Watson thought some lingering difficulty was to be expected given the circumstances, so he was exceedingly pleased with the progress. For Holmes, dinner consisted of thin porridge, applesauce, custard, and tea, and afterward he slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted.

Watson spent some minutes just watching him sleep, relishing the sight of the deep, measured breaths that he had taken for granted so many times before. "Happy New Year," he murmured, then crawled onto the bed next to Holmes and joined him in slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

"I will not be seen in my nightshirt in a borrowed bed," Holmes asserted, tightening his grip on the trousers Watson was attempting to wrest from him.

"Just because you can breathe again doesn't mean you have recuperated enough to exert yourself," Watson retorted.

"Dressing and venturing down the hall can hardly be considered exertion."

"It is when you have passed almost the entirety of the past two days in sleep to recover from nearly suffocating to death."

"By that measure, you should also be objecting to the fact that I will be engaging in a no doubt lengthy conversation with the village constable," Holmes said archly.

Watson surrendered the trousers. "I do object, but I recognize that your testimony is necessary in order for the case against that man to move forward. A testimony, I might add, that you could give perfectly well from this very bed."

Holmes put the trousers on. "Indulge me, Watson. I am not insisting upon returning to the inn, so at least allow me a change of rooms for a short time."

Watson heaved a sigh. "If you fall ill again, remember that I advised against this."

"I shall be fine," Holmes assured him.

When he removed his nightshirt, Watson insisted upon examining the bullet graze; it was healing nicely despite all of the coughing and not being bandaged, so he allowed Holmes to continue dressing.

In spite of his grumbling about unnecessary exertion, seeing Holmes back in his element did Watson no end of good. It was oddly soothing to watch Holmes, at his ease in an incongruously flowered armchair, gesture with his long, thin hands as he narrated the story of the murder and what followed to the astonished village constable and the clerk he'd brought along to record Holmes' account.

A scene so like many others in the past, it reassured Watson that Holmes was alive and well in a way that nothing else could. He was, of course, appropriately impressed at the conclusions Holmes had been able to draw with so little information, but what mattered more to him at that moment was that Holmes was alive to tell it.

It truly was a compelling story, and had garnered much attention in the newspapers in the days of Holmes' illness and recuperation. From what Holmes had said in the course of his investigation, Watson had been able to figure out the major points of the case, and was gratified when Holmes' tale confirmed he'd gotten them correct.

'Sir' Thaddeus Smith was the illegitimate child of Sir Matthias Smith and the woman who lived as his wife. Why they were never married was a matter for speculation, though Holmes inferred it was likely that the woman was married to another man, but the fact that they were not married was not generally known to those in the village. Smith lived large and well beyond his means, so though he had been left a considerable fortune by his mother's relations, it was not many years before he found himself in debt. He kept himself afloat for a time, but was in danger from his creditors when Sir Matthias conveniently died and allowed him access to the Smith family coffers.

That money, too, quickly vanished, and Smith again found himself in need. Fortunately, he found a rich, eligible young woman, but one of her family's demands for any prospective suitor was that he be titled. Smith was able to bluff his way into their intimate acquaintance, but when the time came for the engagement, the lady's father was adamant about seeing Smith's papers before agreeing to anything.

Smith concocted a plan to tamper with the marriage registry to enter his parents' names at the appropriate point and then provide the registry as proof of his lineage. Unfortunately, the vicar surprised him at his task and Smith reacted violently, stabbing him repeatedly in the neck with the pen he had at hand. Smith fled with the register with the intention of bringing it back once it was altered.

"But there wasn't sufficient room on the correct pages for him to put in his parents' names," Watson broke in. He knew that much from staring at the register for those long hours, carefully examining a range of a year and a half that Holmes had told him to check.

Holmes glanced at him, a smile in his eyes, then continued. "With his original plan unsuccessful, Smith returned the register to the vestry and attempted to burn the evidence. Presumably he thought his fiancee's family would accept the destruction of the desired information and move ahead with the engagement. I was waiting for him in the vestry and startled him; we struggled and he was able to incapacitate me, but not before I shot him with his own gun. It seems safe to venture that he then started the fire and fled and you are aware of the rest."

The constable had begun shaking his head disbelievingly somewhere around the time that Holmes brought up the plan to tamper with the marriage registry and he continued until well after Holmes finished. "Well I'll be," he managed after several minutes of speechless silence. "I'll be," he repeated.

When he recovered himself, which evidently required some head-scratching and throat-clearing, he said, "We'd heard of you, Mr. Holmes, but I can't say I believed all of what I heard. I sure do now, and those stories don't tell the half of it. I'm that grateful you were here to figure out this mess."

Holmes beamed, his pride tickled by the admiring words. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his card-case. "If I should be needed to testify at the trial, you will find me in London," he said, handing his card to the constable, who stared at it with awe.

"Thank you, sir," he said, rising hurriedly from his seat. "We'll be sure to let you know if anything else is needed."

He made his exit, followed closely by his clerk, and Holmes sank back into his armchair with a sigh. He rubbed his face wearily and yawned. "I think I need a nap," he admitted ruefully.

Watson rose from his chair and held out a hand to help Holmes up. "You are welcome to take one, just not here."

"I thought you did not want me to exert myself."

"The exertion is allowed when it is to return you to your bed," Watson said lightly.

Holmes chuckled. "If you insist."

.

After spending a week at the rectory, Watson deemed Holmes sufficiently recovered to return to the inn. Abigail made it clear they were welcome to remain until departing the village, though she also understood that Holmes desired a more lively atmosphere.

It was a mild day when they relocated; Watson still insisted that Holmes cover his mouth and nose with a scarf so the cold outside air wouldn't irritate his lungs. Their stroll through the village caused a bit of a stir as word spread of who they were, but no one approached them on the streets.

Watson still watched Holmes closely for some days after they returned to the inn, concerned about the lingering possibility of pneumonia, but nothing came of his fears. Which was fortunate, for Holmes was quite finished with being cooped up indoors.

Holmes insisted upon going out on a ramble every afternoon. Watson accompanied him so he would not be alone if his lungs seized up; he had to admit the weather was quite suitable for such outings and the landscape was very agreeable.

They remained in the village for another fortnight. By then Holmes was itching to return to London and Watson had to agree with him, if for no other reason than to make sure Mrs. Hudson received their February rent on time, for they had stayed far longer than Watson anticipated. So he arranged for their transportation to the train station the very next day and looked forward to being back in his own bed the following night.

Holmes was in good spirits when they departed to catch their train. Watson was pleased, and could not resist saying, "I do hope you wouldn't still insist that taking this holiday was a waste of time. You look more content than you have since your return."

"Not a waste of time, no," Holmes agreed readily, glancing at him before returning his gaze to the passing countryside. "I would not care to repeat certain parts, of course, but the case was an engaging one and you might even get a story out of it."

"That's not what I meant," Watson protested.

"I know," Holmes said airily. "But I would not be so pleased with our time away if there had been no case. You must realize that your idea of a 'restful' time would drive me utterly mad with boredom."

Watson sighed heavily. "You will have to learn to live life at a slower pace before you retire."

"Who said anything about retiring?" Holmes scoffed, waving his hand dismissively.

"You shall have to eventually. You won't be able to run down criminals when you're old and arthritic."

Holmes made a derisive noise. "I have always thought it likely that I would meet my end in the course of my work. I very nearly did, you know. I . . . " he trailed off and frowned, staring at his hands in his lap. Then he shrugged a little. "Retirement seems too improbable to think about just yet."

Watson let Holmes' first comment go without response. "You might want to give some thought to the matter, particularly since you will have to find some hobby that can entertain you."

"Bees," Holmes said promptly.

"Bees," Watson repeated dubiously.

"Yes, bees. I came across a colony not far from the village; I spoke with the keeper for some time before returning to find out about the murder. They have great potential as objects of study."

Watson shook his head and chuckled to himself. The carriage pulled up at the train station and they disembarked; Watson paid the driver while Holmes retrieved the baggage.

When they were settled in their compartment on the train, Watson said, "Only you would want to study stinging insects in your retirement."

Holmes grinned around the stem of his unlit pipe. "I have always been an eccentric."

Watson grinned back fondly. "I only hope you are not allergic to their stings."

"Not at all," Holmes assured him as the train jerked into motion, then continued speaking of bees and hives and other things he could do to fill the time in his retirement, which proceeded into an explanation of something related to his hobbies . . . Watson wasn't paying attention to his words then, instead letting the sound of Holmes' voice wash over him and enjoying the sight of Holmes gesticulating as he spoke. It felt more like old times than any other moment since Holmes' return the previous April, and it was then he knew for certain that everything was as it should be again.


End file.
